


Favorite Color

by QueenLoofah



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-11-28 23:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11428410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenLoofah/pseuds/QueenLoofah
Summary: Spock returns all roughed-up from a dangerous mission and Dr. McCoy is fed up with the Vulcan's disregard for his own health. Takes place post-Star Trek Beyond with reference to the movie. Spones.





	1. Chapter 1

Dr. McCoy appeared more irritated than usual. Spock noted the stiffness of the doctor’s shoulder muscles through his light blue uniform shirt. He had been slouched over his medical equipment for quite a while. Spock was not adept at interpreting human behavior, but he suspected that his colleague was ignoring him.  


Spock was currently the only patient in medical bay. He had just arrived freshly bruised from an away-mission on the inhospitable Kalak-Th’u, and though Spock insisted that he was fit for duty, the captain, eyeing his wounds, nagged and bullied him into a medical examination anyway.  


…An examination that had yet to take place. Spock’s eyes roved over the empty expanse of the medical bay as he waited for Dr. McCoy to turn around and give him a shot, or order him to inhale deeply, or prod his bruises to check for tenderness in his usual brisk, unsympathetic manner. But the doctor remained at his equipment, silent as ever.  


Spock cycled through the list of human offenses he could have accidentally committed to warrant what humans termed “The Cold Shoulder”. Did he correct a factual inaccuracy that the doctor believed to be true? Did he undermine the doctor’s illogical fondness for Terran alcoholic beverages? Did he forget the doctor’s birthday?  
Deep in this train of thought, Spock almost did not notice Dr. McCoy pace toward the computer on the far wall.  


“Computer, for how long can a Vulcan survive while exposed to the atmosphere on Kalak-Th’u?” barked the doctor.  


“[Seven hours, approximately].” responded the computer. _Seven hours and four minutes_ , Spock corrected mentally. Safe on the Enterprise, though, Spock failed to see the relevance of that query.  


“And Computer, how much blood can a Vulcan lose before he dies alone and friendless on a savage planet?”  


“[Six pints, regardless of social relationships or location.]”  


“Then why the _hell_ ,” The doctor whirled around to face Spock. “are you sitting there, cool as a cucumber, while you’re oozing blood like a geyser?” He looked half-deranged, glaring at Spock with an autosuture clutched in one hand and a medical tricorder in the other.  


“Waiting for you to begin the examination, doctor.” Spock responded calmly. “Had you not been occupied with your equipment, I would not have lost so much blood.”  


“You don’t need an examination, you bonehead, you need an operation. Look at yourself.”  


Dr. McCoy thrust the tricorder in front of Spock. Through the mirror setting on the screen, he observed his appearance. His usually-tidy hair was mussed from combat. Deep green bruises covered his face, and his pallor had taken on an even paler shade from the effects of Kalak-Th’u’s poisonous atmosphere. Having taken his uniform shirt off, he noted that a deep laceration from the Th’ulian spear fight was still bleeding.  


“Then I am at a loss as to why you delayed the operation. The quicker it is done, the sooner I can return to my post,” said Spock, setting the tricorder down.  


The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “I was waiting for you to express some kind of self-preservation. Tell me Spock, if I never said anything, would you have just sat there until you bled to death?”  


Spock opened his mouth to speak, but the Dr. McCoy cut him off. “Or a better question—would you have stayed on that toxic planet for all those seven hours if I hadn’t threatened Jim into pulling you out early? Either you don’t know your limits, or you just don’t care. Well, I can play indifferent, too. Lie down.”  


Spock complied, eyeing the autosuture. He was familiar with the burn of having wounds melded shut with the instrument and prepared himself for the discomfort. Dr. McCoy was soon standing over him, one hand braced on Spock’s stomach and the other hovering over the flank wound with the autosuture.  


In the close proximity, Spock could clearly see the signs of weariness in the doctor’s face. His brows were drawn together. His mouth was a hard line. He had dark bags underneath his blue eyes. A very different blue from the blue of his uniform. More comparable to the blue of Terran oceans when viewed from space. Perhaps Dr. McCoy would benefit from a vacation to Earth, Spock mused. Humans seemed to overwork themselves quite frequently. In fact, Dr. McCoy was most likely projecting his own weakness onto him. Unlike humans, Vulcans could withstand anyth—  


“Uuuuuurgh” Spock groaned as the heat of the autosuture seared his open wound. Dr. McCoy smirked down at him, blue eyes gleaming.  


“Not so tough now, are you? Green-blooded, heartless goblin.”  


“…Favorite color…” Spock muttered through the pain.  


“What was that, computer-brain?” the doctor asked, still suturing.  


“…Is that not standard medical procedure? To ask my favorite color before a painful operation. You did so after my injury on—“  


“Yes, yes, I remember. Yet another time I had to save your ass from your own self-neglect, for all the good it did me.”

Spock hissed as the autosuture sealed the last of the laceration and Dr. McCoy prodded it experimentally. “Well, Spock, as soon as I can mop up the blood from your body, you’ll be free to leave and find some other way to get yourself killed.”  


“I can do so myself, doctor.” Spock replied, attempting to prop himself up only to be shoved back down again. Whether from blood loss or something else, the doctor’s hand, firm on his chest, felt soothing after the intense pain.  


“Don’t even think about it, devil-ears.” Dr. McCoy replaced his hand with a damp rag, and Spock begrudgingly relaxed as it traveled over his stomach and to his side, wiping every trace of green blood from his body. Neither spoke for a small while; the doctor intent on his work, and Spock intent on trying not to enjoy the sensation.  


“Doctor McCoy.”  


“Hm?”  


“Regarding my favorite color. As of late, I have been considering the question. If I had to choose,” Spock looked deep into the doctor’s tired eyes, “I believe it would be blue.”  


The doctor met Spock’s eyes and his hand ceased moving.  


“On second thought, Spock, I do believe that the blood loss has rendered you delirious.” The rag slipped uselessly to the floor as Dr. McCoy reached up to place his cool hand on Spock’s forehead. “In my professional opinion, you must remain here in medical bay for the remainder of the week at least.”  


For once, Spock could not argue with the doctor’s logic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first fanfiction! It was supposed to be less suture-y and more sexy, but maybe I'll continue it with more romance. Thank you for reading :)


	2. Chapter 2

A day and a half following his return from Kalak-Th’u, Spock was still the only patient in medical bay, with McCoy surveying his recovery.  


McCoy regularly checked Spock’s face, neck and chest every few hours for the color changes that would denote the Th’ulian poison slowly being diluted from his body by natural Vulcan healing processes—in actuality, just a tenuous excuse to keep him shirtless at all times. McCoy almost felt bad for taking advantage of his patient like this, but the temptation was too much to resist.  


From his desk McCoy let his eyes wander over the Vulcan’s body. Tall, with shoulders much broader than his own. Pale skin of a greenish yellow hue. A dusting of fine black hair covering his chest and trailing down to his stomach. Long arms with wiry muscles.  


McCoy knew Spock was strong. He’d seen him take down Romulans, Klingons, and the plethora of other dangerous space creatures that regularly threatened the Enterprise. When McCoy touched Spock’s chest, he imagined he could almost feel that strength humming underneath the skin, waiting to be provoked into action. And yet Spock was so unassuming, sitting quietly on a medical bed, content to fiddle with the medical tricorder.  


Well, perhaps “content” wasn’t the most appropriate word. Despite having agreed to remain in medical bay for recuperation, very soon afterwards Spock became antsy due to “idleness”. He argued that being useful was paramount to his mental health and began harassing McCoy for things to do.  


Initially, having a shirtless Spock trail him around medical bay demanding tasks to keep him occupied was admittedly adorable. But the Vulcan need for productiveness was hard to keep up with, and Spock proved too competent of an assistant for McCoy to handle. After completely alphabetizing the crew’s medical files, cleaning the empty medicine vials, and proofreading McCoy’s Federation logs for the current month, Spock was still not nullified.  


In a final act of desperation, McCoy ordered Spock to deconstruct the medical tricorder and check for substandard parts, then reconstruct it again. He assumed it would buy him at least an hour and a half of peace, but he had apparently underestimated Spock’s nimble hands. Was he ever this efficient during their away-missions together?  


Spock was nearly finished putting the tricorder back together when McCoy was struck with a novel idea. Spock would never agree to it, McCoy thought. _But if he did...._  


McCoy watched Spock make the finishing touches on the tricorder, then open his gab to demand another task—the doctor intercepted him. “Hey Spock, you know what would really help me out?”  


Catching his tone, the Vulcan quirked his eyebrow in suspicion. “What would what be, doctor?”  


“You may not have noticed, Spock, but this business of being a chief medical officer can really take a toll on a man’s body. I work around the clock, and at the end of the day, my back is bent, my neck is tight, my eyes are tired…Are you following me?” McCoy leaned against Spock’s medical bed.  


“You may not have noticed, but I have been doing your menial tasks all day while you sat at your desk. You do not see me complaining.” Spock returned.  


“Listen, you need something to do, and I have a crick in my neck. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, right?”  


“You want me to scratch your back, doctor?”  


“No, just rub here.” McCoy grabbed Spock’s hand and placed it behind his neck. He expected Spock to retract his hand, but surprisingly it stayed. Even more surprising, the fingers began moving.  


First lightly enough to elicit a shiver down McCoy’s spine. Then gently kneading around the vertebrae at the base of his neck, trailing to the side to press against the left upper trapezius muscle.  


“Say, you’re not bad at this.” McCoy smirked, closing his eyes. The sensation of Spock’s other hand cupping the right side of his neck jolted them open again.  


“You were not lying, doctor. Your muscles are stiff to the point of near-debilitation.” McCoy staggered back as Spock stood up abruptly—the Vulcan caught him by the shoulders. “I cannot let the chief medical officer continue working if his body is not functioning at full potential. Take this off.”  


Before he could react, Spock was tugging the doctor’s shirt over his head and tossing it to the side. Spock pressed a hand on the center of McCoy’s back, directing his body into an arch.  


“It’s largely due to your awful posture, I suspect.”  


“Shut up, Sp—Aaaah…” McCoy groaned as Spock’s hands attacked the knots in his back. He was being mercilessly squeezed and kneaded, but with such expertise that it took everything he had not to collapse. He was turning into putty in Spock’s hands. “What are you doing to me, you green demon?” McCoy breathed.  


“Surely you are familiar with Vulcan neuro-pressure techniques.” Spock replied, grinding the heel of his palm just above McCoy’s glutes.  


“I didn’t realize it was this—potent.” McCoy bit out as his knees finally bucked and he lurched against Spock’s chest.  


“Fascinating how easily humans succumb to pleasure, doctor.” Spock murmured into his ear, supporting his body in an embrace. Surely this was revenge for the autosuture, McCoy thought.  


“Why does it feel as if I’ve switched positions with you from doctor to patient?”  


“It was you who requested this.”  


Well I don’t care what kind of crazy positions you put me in, just don’t stop what you’re doing—that’s an order.”  


“Yes, doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What if I told you that this was just another excuse to break out my anatomy books again.
> 
> I recently realized something about the reboot movies--Deforest Kelley's eyes are blue, but Karl Urban's are brown! The whole premise of the previous chapter is rendered moot, haha
> 
> Thank you for reading my second chapter :)


	3. Chapter 3

There was a warm breeze whistling through the air on Risa this evening. Beach-goers spread themselves on blankets over the sand and breathed deeply to inhale the balmy, almost sensual scent of Risa’s eternal summer air. Others, in a futile attempt at activity, waded languidly in the temperate water as tropical fish swam idly near. 

Spock lay witness to all this with abject disapproval. 

Despite his current displeasure, it had been Spock’s suggestion that the crew take shore leave on Risa. The majority of the crew consisted of humans and, after all, humans required ample rest to function at full capacity. 

This had been his irrefutable reasoning to Captain Kirk, who took to the idea with enthusiasm. No doubt fantasizing about scantily clad women on the beach for the entirety of the trip there. 

And yet, as his eyes roved once again to a lone figure standing in the shallow tide, Spock was forced to admit what a rash and foolish idea it had been. 

Much like the women of the Captain’s fantasies, Doctor McCoy was also wearing swimwear. A simple dark blue brief, with no frivolous pattern or embellishments. It was not even the most outlandish or revealing swimsuit on the beach. However, Spock thought with disapproval, it was no way for a ship’s chief medical officer to dress himself—carelessly revealing his bare torso and legs for anyone to see. 

Spock had vowed to himself that after the brief flirtation in medical bay, he would entertain no more…distractions with the Doctor. They were both professionals, highly regarded in their fields, and both crucial to the success of the 5 year mission. If Spock could not function as a science officer, or the Doctor could not function as a medical officer, the ship would fall to chaos. Spock would not have that. 

Thus, Spock jerked his eyes away from the Doctor for the fourth time that hour, and settled his gaze on his captain a few feet away. Unsurprisingly, Jim was surrounded by a gaggle of Risian women. 

This was a race that thrived by giving complete control to their base impulses and the desires of those around them. It was a concept alien to Spock, and it occurred to him that of all the crewmembers vacationing here, he was the most monumentally out of place. It was, in fact, illogical for him to stay sitting on a beach towel in the midst of so much self-indulgent frivolity. 

Perhaps it would be best to find a more secluded area of the beach to meditate. Standing up to leave, Spock’s line of vision happened by chance to once again coincide with the Doctor’s position, some three yards from where he was before. 

Next to a Risian male, who appeared to be initiating a conversation. 

Spock’s brows furrowed. The man’s swimsuit—if one could call it that—left little to the imagination, being constructed merely of two strips of braided cloth that barely covered his genitals, and did not even attempt to cover his buttocks. 

The Risian appeared to be offering something to the Doctor—a drink. Without doubt one of the gaudy, colorful alcoholic beverages so popular on Risa. It was just about the only thing they served on the planet, it seemed like, aside from the equally gaudy array of extravagant meals and desserts. 

Spock paused momentarily, waiting for the Doctor to refuse. Surely he would have no interest in accepting a drink offered by some stranger on the beach. 

Apparently Spock had underestimated the Doctor’s fondness for alcohol, because he took it and drank heavily. A thoughtless, irresponsible, even selfish thing to do. The Doctor should be aware of the risk of taking food or drink from unknown persons. 

Spock watched the doctor take another gulp, and the Risian clap his hands in an obnoxious display of mirth. He set his jaw. If the Doctor was too steeped in Risa’s profligacy to remember how to behave as a Starfleet officer, Spock would remind him. 

Before he could think of what to say, he was trudging across the sand toward them. 

* * *

McCoy toasted the Risian’s hospitality before taking another sip of the strange, fruity drink the man had offered him. He was tall, muscular like most Risian men, with a golden tan that set off his green eyes beautifully. Looked as if he was just about made for the beach, McCoy thought. 

Though he couldn’t help his mind from noting what a stark contrast the man made to a certain Vulcan. 

McCoy blinked and took another sip, trying to dispel that train of thought. 

After he’d been discharged from sickbay, Spock had made quite clear his lack of interest in continuing their little tryst by avoiding McCoy. It was humiliating, but McCoy had to admit to himself that he should have seen it coming. Spock was always going to choose the Enterprise over him. Romance just wouldn’t fit into Spock’s carefully controlled life, ruled by logic and efficiency. 

McCoy smiled bitterly. Logic. He was sure Spock found his desire for him meaningless at best; at worst, a burden. He could just imagine Spock lecturing him about the follies of human affection in his cold, unfeeling way. 

As if summoned, McCoy heard a voice from behind them. 

“Doctor McCoy, if I could have a word.” 

McCoy twisted around wildly, gaping. This was the first time Spock had talked to him in weeks. McCoy had been preparing to forget Spock on this vacation, yet here he was to pick at his wounds. As if he’d give that green-blooded goblin the satisfaction. The doctor tried to regain his composure, steeling his expression. 

The Risian turned to Spock and smiled beatifically. 

“Would you like a drink, Mr. Vulcan? Your friend seems to enjoy them quite a bit.” 

Spock’s lips pursed. 

The Risian continued, gesturing toward a small hut in the distance. “My bar is actually right over there; we make the best—” 

“That will be all. Come with me, Doctor.” 

Spock pressed his hand to McCoy’s back, guiding him away from the seashore toward a nearby nature path. 

McCoy tried shrugging him off, but the Vulcan propelled him forward with immovable force, his face unreadable. 

“Good to see your manners are as abysmal as ever.” McCoy snapped. 

“And your common sense is as absent as ever.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Doctor,” Spock returned, “Did it not occur to you that that Risian’s intentions may have been dishonorable? That the drink he offered you might have been drugged, or that he might be trying to intoxicate you for the purpose of taking advantage of you? Perhaps you thought that merely because this is a Federation planet, you could implicitly trust any person who approached y—” 

“Christ, Spock, he’s just a kid. He was obviously trying to advertise his bar, nothing more.” 

“His age is irrelevant. For all your talk of my supposed lack of self-preservation, you seem to be just as reckless.” 

McCoy winced at the mention of the sickbay visit. Of course Spock was heartless enough to casually allude to it like it was nothing. Or could it be that it was just as ever-present in Spock’s mind as it was his? 

“Furthermore, it is no way to comport yourself in front of the crew, carelessly downing alcohol as if it were water.” 

“Oh, don’t give me that. I don’t see you getting on Jim’s case—he’s arguably the most debauched of the entire crew. Unless it’s a hobby of yours to throw a wet blanket over any bit of enjoyment in my life.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Nevermind it, Mr. Spock. If you’re done lecturing me, I’d like to get another one of those drinks— _Jelrei_ , I think he called it.” 

By then they had stopped in a remote clearing in the nature path, far from the beach-goers. McCoy turned to head back, but Spock gripped his shoulder, staying him. 

“If you intend to ignore my advice, I feel it’s my responsibility to keep you from further endangering yourself.” The Vulcan said, turning McCoy to face him. 

“This isn’t even about the drink, is it Spock? 

“And what else would it be about, Doctor?” 

“Eyes up here, devil-ears.” 

McCoy watched Spock come to the realization that he had been speaking directly to McCoy’s swimsuit for the past minute. His eyes snapped up to meet McCoy’s, still maintaining an expression of stoicism. Infuriating, damnable stoicism. 

McCoy jerked his shoulder out of Spock’s grasp, stepping forward until the two men were face to face. 

“Y’know Spock, maybe the heat’s getting to me, but this seems like the optimal moment to tell you just what’s on my mind, and you’re going to listen.” 

“Doctor—” 

“You’re a coward, is what you are. Here we are in the middle of a pleasure planet, surrounded by paradise, and the only way you can figure to get my attention is making up some ridiculous excuse about booze. Well, you can’t have it both ways. You can’t insert yourself into my life and pretend to be indifferent to me at the same time. If you haven’t the courage to acknowledge what really happened in sickbay, I have no interest in—” 

McCoy was prevented from continuing his tirade on account of Spock’s lips slanted over his, silencing him. 

McCoy had not imagined the Vulcan’s lips to be so soft. Spock always seemed as if he were a being made of stone. Hard and unyielding. But his lips were disarmingly gentle. The hand he brought to McCoy’s face was gentle. The Vulcan traced his fingers down the doctor’s cheek, along his jaw, resting on his chin and gently pushing to break the kiss. McCoy took is hand in both of his, smirking up at him in triumph. 

“A kiss, Spock? How unlike you.” 

“As you said, perhaps it is the heat affecting me. But I felt it appropriate. This is Risa, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Spock did suggest the trip for McCoy's sake :)
> 
> At this point, I’m not even writing these with the Kelvinverse characters in mind, even if the initial chapter referenced Beyond. It’s all Nimoy and Kelley. You may envision whichever characters you like, though!
> 
> Thanks for reading this fic. It was a fun first dip into fanfiction. Although I'm still working on Strange Heart Beating, I look forward to writing a lot more. Maybe a DS9 Kira/Jadzia one next...


End file.
